


Antivenom

by wanderlustnostalgia



Series: Dodge the Blast [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, Attempted Murder, Betrayal, Cameos, Coma, Corruption, Established Relationship, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Inaccuracies, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Murder, Past Character Death, Poison, Poisoning, Why do I do this to myself, author watches too many cop shows, deaths aren't in-fic but mentioned, did i mention the angst, i did a bit of research but i probably got a lot of things wrong sorry about that, i probably killed off at least one of your faves, poor Patrick, references, there's 2/5 of Pentatonix in here read closely and you'll find the other 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 07:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11100207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/wanderlustnostalgia
Summary: Patrick was poisoned.Someone wanted to hurt his Patrick, make Patrick suffer.  Someone who went all the way to fucking Trenton, New Jersey just to steal one fucking vial of one fucking poison that shouldn’t even exist to begin with, and out of all the people they could’ve hit with it, could’ve slipped it to when they weren’t looking, Patrick was their target of choice.--A missing journalist, a break-in at a medical research facility that shouldn't even be operational, one Special Agent Stumph fighting for his life in the hospital, and an anxious boyfriend by the name of Pete Wentz who will stop at nothing to find the cure to Patrick's ills before it's too late.





	1. saturday:  mornings and phone calls

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Fun fact: the FBI actually does have offices in Chicago, which is pretty convenient story-wise  
> 2) Another fun fact: Pete and Ashlee were on an episode of _CSI: NY_ as drug dealers and I had no idea beforehand until I watched it so that was wild  
>  3) I apologize for all the harm I inflict on Patrick. I do love him, but I also love angst and pain so you can imagine this was a long time coming  
> 4) There might be a sequel to this mainly because I have a desire to see Halsey as an FBI agent  
> 5) Final fun fact: I've rewritten the beginning of this about six times.

 

It all starts with a phone call.

In Pete’s experience, a lot of bad things start with a phone call, so that should probably have been his first sign.  _Got a body in Naperville.  Police found the missing girl’s blood in a closet.  A bank got shot up, three dead so far, you should head over ASAP.  I’m sorry, Pete, but we’re just not right for each other._

Sometimes, though, you get sloppy.  Sometimes you stop keeping track, and these times are always the times that, in the grand scheme of things, make the most difference.  And sometimes, as in this particular case, you’re too tired to give a fuck.

He wakes up at seven or so on a Saturday morning to the sound of a phone going off.  He’s not sure if it’s his.  It doesn’t matter, because beside him Patrick’s grumbling, “Your problem,” and rolling over, clearly in no mood to sacrifice his well-deserved rest for another dead body or missing jewel or corrupt corporate executive on the lam.  Pete doesn’t blame him—their last case, which concerned the apprehension and arrest of one Courtney Love, ex-musician and notorious cult leader, had everyone pulling all-nighters and operating solely on caffeine and adrenaline.  Even Dallon was exhausted by the end of it, and he only had to deal with the corpses.

Grunting, Pete rolls over and reaches for the phone.  Based on the size and feel, he’s pretty sure it’s Patrick’s.  He answers it anyway.

Big mistake:  “Agent Wentz,” says Travie—er, Special Agent McCoy.  He’s in charge of FBI Chicago Division, and he’s basically their boss.  He also happens to be one of Pete and Patrick’s close friends, which makes this, the fact that he caught Pete in possession of Patrick’s phone, all the more embarrassing.  “Please tell me I have the pleasure of speaking to you while you’re fully clothed.”

He sounds entirely too smug, and Pete curses under his breath.  He’s got half a mind to flip Travie off, except a) as established, Travie’s his boss, and b) employer-employee relationship implications aside, it’s not like Travie would be able to see him.  “Sorry, Trav—uh, sir,” he says, biting back his scathing retort (the time-honored and perfectly eloquent _fuck you,_ in case you were wondering).  “I, uh—I assume you’d like to speak with Patrick—I mean, Agent—Agent Stumph?”  Fuck, he’s too tired for this.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Travie replies smoothly, and damn, he’s too considerate for his own fucking good.  Pete can’t even manage to stay mad at him for ten seconds.  “Tell him to take his time.  He knows where to reach me.”

“Whuzzit?” Patrick mumbles, shifting in bed.  He stretches out an arm, smacking into Pete’s chest, then pats around Pete’s lap blindly, like he’s looking for something.  Pete stifles a laugh.  “Who’s— _hm_ —who’s callin’?”

“One sec, Trav.  ’ere, talk to your boss.”  Pete hands the phone to Patrick, who takes it and squints confusedly before pressing it to his ear.

“’ullo?”

Pete lies back down and scrubs a hand over his face.  There’s some dried-up crusty shit in his eyes and he really needs a drink—preferably coffee.  The sun isn’t even fully out yet and it’s still too bright for his liking.  He yawns and burrows back under the sheets, too stimulated to go back to sleep but too drowsy to fully function, and either way unwilling to get out of bed.  Instead he closes his eyes and listens to Patrick’s sleepy, hoarse grunts of “uh-huh” and “yes sir” and “sure thing” and “no sir, not a problem” and “yes, okay, thank you”; he pictures him nodding along and doing that thing where he licks his lips while he’s thinking, the one that always makes Pete go weak in the knees.  Already Pete feels his heart flutter.

The conversation eventually drops into silence.  Pete hears Patrick set the phone down, then feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist; a nose presses into the back of his neck.  “What’d Travie say?” he asks.

“None of your damn business,” Patrick murmurs.  His lips brush against Pete’s back when he talks.  Pete shivers.

“I call bullshit,” he says.  His mouth feels a little like mush; Christ, why is he so tired?  “You sound grumpy.”

“Fine,” Patrick relents, his tone doing nothing to counter the accusation of grumpiness.  “He wants me to meet with him later.”

“Is that it?  Don’t leave me hangin’ like that, ‘Trick, you know I hate cliffhangers.”

“Asshole.”  There’s a pause, and then Patrick says reluctantly, “He said the mayor would be there.”

“Oh-ho-ho, your favorite.”  Pete smirks.  Personally, he has no problem with Mayor Sinclair (the guy’s a little slick, but what politician isn’t), but Patrick—well, for lack of a better word, Patrick hates the mayor.  Absolutely hates the mayor.  Then again, Patrick hates most politicians, but then _again_ again, not to the degree he hates Sinclair.  Like, he’s actually gone out of his way to give the finger to Sinclair’s campaign posters, and that’s saying something.  Pete’s pretty sure Patrick would rather personally shake the hand of George W. Bush and invite him to dinner at their apartment than even spare a smile for Sinclair.  “I’m so jealous.  Why don’t I get to meet with the mayor?” he quips lazily, fully aware that at this point he’s poking a bear.  Granted, that bear is 5’5, but he’s also a trained sharpshooter with a solid right hook.  Pete is treading dangerous waters here.

Thankfully, Patrick doesn’t kick his ass.  He does snort sardonically, his exhale warm against Pete’s neck.  “Yeah, I’m the luckiest damn horseshoe crab in this fucking ocean,” he deadpans.

Pete grins.  “Thought you said you’d die before you used any of my—what’d you call ‘em?— _completely unnecessary and nonsensical_ metaphors,” he teases.

“I believe the term I used was _pretentious_ ,” Patrick replies, in the vaguely haughty tone of voice he uses to lecture people (usually Joe) on music.  “Then again, I also said I’d never date a coworker, so what do I know.”

Pete laughs this time, loudly, and squirms a little in Patrick’s arms, rolls over so they’re face-to-face.  Patrick’s trying his damnedest to look peeved, but he eventually sighs and gives in, reaching up to stroke Pete’s hair.

“So,” Pete says, “why do you hate Sinclair so much?”

“Do I really need a reason?”  Patrick sighs.  “I don’t know, call it gut instinct or whatever.  He just—he rubs me the wrong way.”

“So—what, you get, like, acid reflux when you hear his name?”  Patrick snorts again and rolls his eyes.  “No, babe, I’m serious.  You gotta tell Dallon or someone so you can, like, get that shit checked out.”

“Smartass.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, cupping Patrick’s jaw and leaning in for the kiss, “but I’m your smartass.”


	2. saturday-tuesday:  offers and rejections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve been offered a promotion,” Patrick says, voice quiet, “in LA.”
> 
> Oh.
> 
> _…Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slice-of-life character/environment/background establishment chapter-thingy. Things get more interesting in the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated and thanks for reading! :D Every kudos and comment makes my day <3

Pete’s been working for the Bureau a little over ten years.  He’s been working for FBI Chicago a little less than that, having been transferred every which way in the early stages of his career until finally settling into a comfortable position in an office not far from where he grew up.  He used to hate the idea of settling, especially so close to home, but after a few years getting shot at and tailing bad guys and very narrowly escaping getting killed, he’s come to acknowledge that it’s probably for the best that he stays as rooted to his hometown as possible.  It’s like that thing from _Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ where the further you are from your birthplace when you die the stronger the sensation of distance your body feels, although that analogy’s made kind of useless by the fact that humans aren’t supposed to be able to feel these sensations, but whatever.  Case files are boring and sometimes he wants something uplifting yet philosophically challenging (which may or may not actually be code for “raids Patrick’s library”, but who cares) to take his mind off of things.

So yeah, maybe Pete’s been thinking about death a lot lately.  His mom says the job’s made him morbid, but he thinks that’s just a convenient excuse to ignore the fact that he’s always been a little fucked in the head.

He’s half-asleep in the passenger seat of Patrick’s sedan, dreaming of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters and talking mice and the number 42 factored every which way, when the driver’s side door opens and jolts him awake, Patrick sliding into the driver’s seat seconds later.

“How’d it go?”  Pete sits up, wincing at the crick in his neck.  He feels old.  He knows he’s only in his thirties and his mom would probably be clicking her tongue at his complaining, but still.  It sucks not being twenty-three anymore.

Patrick doesn’t look at him as he turns the key in the ignition, then shifts into reverse.  “I’ve been offered a promotion,” he says, voice quiet, “in LA.”

Oh.

… _Oh._

“You’re…” Pete swallows, trying to compose himself.  “You’re—you’ve been—no, ‘Trick, dude, that’s—that’s great!”

He’s torn between swelling with pride and having a panic attack.  Patrick.  Los Angeles.  _Them._   There are too many variables and so many ways this can go wrong.

Patrick seems to think so, too, because he says, “No, Pete,” and pulls over when they’re barely out of the parking lot to lean his head against the steering wheel.  He’s lost a lot of weight recently; Pete can see the sharp line of his cheekbones.  From this angle, he looks almost as old as Pete feels.

“Their head of division’s retiring,” he says at length; the words come out like one long sigh.  “They want me—” he turns his head to face Pete, cheek still pillowed on the steering wheel—“to run the damn thing.”

Pete feels tense all over.  Part of him thinks they’re ready for this—part of him wants Patrick to take the job, wants them both to move to a nice apartment walking distance from the beach and take long walks on their days off and drive into the sunset and kiss under purple desert skies—but he knows it’s more complicated than that.  He can’t put in a transfer to LA, not now, when Chicago PD’s resources are already stretched thin and they need all the help they can get, not when he’s still got a team who needs him—needs _them._   “Well, what’d you tell ‘em?”  His voice rises in pitch at the end.  He doesn’t mean it to, but his body always thinks one step ahead of his brain.

“I told them I’d think about it.”

Patrick’s voice is a flat monotone; he straightens up briefly in his seat, then slouches back down and shuts his eyes.  “Pete, I can’t transfer.  I just—I can’t.  This city—it’s my city.  It’s just—I can’t really explain it, but I—I feel responsible for it, you know?  And I know this is gonna sound stupid, because LA has culture and—and food and people and whatever, just like every other big city, but it’s—it’s not the same.  Here—my heart is here, my _soul_ is here.  I grew up here, I was _born_ here, I can’t just—I can’t just _leave_ it, not now.”

Pete gets it.  He gets the feeling of roots and responsibility and knowing that no matter where you are, you’ll always have somewhere to return to.  For him, though, it’s not a city—it’s a person.

“So don’t take it,” he says.  “I’m sure there’s some hot-shot in Vegas or New York or wherever looking for a change of pace.”

“I guess.”  Patrick opens his eyes and leans forward, placing a hand to his forehead.  “I dunno, Pete, can we not, you know, talk about this right now?  I’m just—everything is just really confusing right now and I need a fucking drink before I can think about any of it.”

The change is so abrupt that Pete barely registers Patrick’s request.  “Uh, yeah,” he says, after about an eternity of awkward expectant staring.  “Yeah, yeah, sure, go ahead, whatever you wanna do.”

Patrick bites his lip (the unintentionally adorable fucker), then nods uneasily and starts the car again.

They’re about five minutes out from the office when it dawns on Pete to wonder:

_Why was the mayor at that meeting?_

**[…]**

 

They go out to the bar with the rest of the team:  Brendon whines the whole night about “how come _Patrick_ gets to go to LA” and “why can’t I go _with_ him”; Hayley rolls her eyes and tells Brendon exasperatedly that “if you wanna go to LA so badly, just put in the fucking transfer”; Joe claps Patrick on the back and tells him to “go for it, get outta this shithole while you still can”; Gerard kindly offers to send Patrick handmade models of Sears Tower in case he gets homesick; Andy just shakes his head and offers a sympathetic, sober smile; and Dallon rambles tipsily about how “this is why I hang out with dead people for a living, so I don’t have to deal with jerks like you”.

Pete mostly just sips his beer and says nothing.  He knows Patrick, who’s half-heartedly accepting congratulations and plastering on a fake smile that’s growing wider and faker the more alcohol he consumes, doesn’t want the job.  He knows that the next time Patrick sees Travie, he’s probably going to turn it down.  What he doesn’t know is why he has such a churning feeling in his gut, this unease that usually kicks in five seconds before a bomb detonates or two seconds before he hears the click of a gun behind his head.  All things considered, he probably shouldn’t have poked fun at Patrick’s “acid reflux” this morning—not when he feels it so violently himself.

He doesn’t sleep that night.  He knows if it weren’t for the liquor coursing through Patrick’s veins, Patrick probably wouldn’t either.

The next night Pete _does_ sleep, but fitfully.  More than once he wakes up in the middle of the night to find Patrick restlessly staring up at the ceiling.  At one point he pokes Patrick in the side and offers to be the big spoon for a change, but Patrick just tells him wearily to go back to sleep.

Monday, Patrick tells Travie he’s turning down the job.  Pete’s spent the whole day doing paperwork with Joe, Andy, and Hayley and when Patrick comes striding out that door Pete nearly tackles him with relief, but Patrick still seems troubled.  He doesn’t want to talk about it, which—he doesn’t normally want to talk about anything with Pete, but when Pete pressed him for more information Patrick actually snapped at him.  Like, honest-to-God _snapped_ at him.

Pete’s pretty sure Patrick needs a break.  He suggests as much, and Patrick tries to fight him on it but the fact that he’s lying on their couch with one arm thrown over his eyes and the other dangling a remote two inches from the floor sort of ruins any credibility his arguments might have had.  The guy has, like, twelve unused sick days.  He’ll survive.

So Patrick takes Tuesday off, and Pete shows up to work solo.  All in all, a pretty low-key day at the office.

Later, he’ll beat his head against a wall and wonder why he let his guard down so easily.


	3. wednesday:  arguments and worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not _nothing!_ You’re sick—” Pete pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to calm down. “Christ, Patrick, you’re throwing up, that’s not _nothing._ ”
> 
> “’s probably food poisoning. Stop worrying so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not pictured: me with fifteen tabs open, half of which have to do with FBI jobs and jurisdiction and half of which concern symptoms and treatment of shock.

“I’m not coming into work today,” Patrick tells Pete Wednesday morning.

Pete’s surprised and a little disappointed (there’s this missing-persons case the police department wanted their help on, and Pete was looking forward to comparing notes), but he nods in understanding.  “Take your time, ‘Trick,” he says, shrugging on his jacket as he heads out the door, though he can’t help but wonder why Patrick’s had this change of heart.

The office, of course, is rife with speculation.

“He’s cheating on you!” Joe shouts when Pete walks into the bullpen, though he’s immediately shut down by Andy whacking him upside the head with a case folder and a glare that could probably turn people to stone.  Pete tries to ignore him, pushing aside thoughts of Patrick leaving him and never loving him as he slips into his desk chair and waits for his computer to wake up.  He loves Joe, but the guy can be such a dick sometimes.

“Any luck?” he asks.

Hayley brings him up to speed on the latest developments in the case, and Pete nods and tells them to “keep searching, I’ll go see if Brendon’s found anything on the vic’s laptop.”

He tries to focus on the case, but as he’s going about his day he’s very much aware of Patrick’s absence.  The sickened feeling hasn’t left his stomach.

 

**[…]**

 

“Babe, I’m home.”

Pete kicks off his shoes and drops his bag to the floor, listening for a reply.  Silence greets him instead.  “Babe?” he calls again.  “Babe, you there?”

He’s answered by the sounds of retching coming from a distant corner; before he knows it he’s sprinting toward the bathroom and throwing the door open.  _I leave him alone for twelve hours and this is what happens—_

“’Trick, are you—” Pete’s cut short by another terrible gagging sound as Patrick dry-heaves, panting into the toilet with wet, shallow gasps.  “Ah, shit, ‘Trick,” Pete groans.  “’Trick, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Pete,” Patrick wheezes, before groaning and hurling again, much to Pete’s dismay.  “Pete,” he says again, no less breathless, “Pete, stop, stop, it’s nothing, it’s fine, go away.”

“It’s not _nothing!_   You’re sick—” Pete pinches the bridge of his nose and forces himself to calm down.  “Christ, Patrick, you’re throwing up, that’s not _nothing._ ”

“’s probably food poisoning.  Stop worrying so much.”

“You told me you had a _sandwich,_ ” Pete protests, “at Fields and Pier.”  He crouches down beside Patrick, who thankfully seems done throwing up and is just trying to catch his breath at this point.  He places a hand on Patrick’s back and rubs circles, trying not to choke on the smell of acid.  Jesus, it _reeks_ in here.  “How long has this been going on?” he asks, quieter.

Patrick doesn’t respond.  He’s hunched over and his eyes are screwed shut and he’s shaking his head, hand clenched in a fist, but Pete’s not taking silence for an answer.  “ _Patrick_ —” he says warningly.

“I don’t—a couple hours, okay?”

_A couple hours—?!_

“Define a couple—fuck that, define _hours,_ ‘Trick, if you’re sick, you should’ve _called me._ ”  Pete doesn’t think he’s been this pissed at Patrick since—well, _ever,_ and that’s usually because _he’s_ the one doing stupid shit and freaking Patrick out.  Pete’s not _supposed_ to be the responsible one in this relationship, goddamnit.

Patrick gulps for air, chest heaving.  “I didn’t—” he says, gasping, “I didn’t tell you—‘cause I didn’t—‘cause I knew you’d worry—I knew you’d flip your shit, and here you are—here you are flipping your shit, you overreacting asshole—”

“Fuck’s _sake,_ ‘Trick, would you stop acting like this is about me for one _fucking_ minute and let me fucking _look_ at you?!”  Patrick winces at Pete’s volume and Pete knows he’s screaming, knows he’s bordering on hysterical, but he doesn’t care—Patrick’s sick, he’s sick and he’s stupid and stubborn and Pete will fucking _flip his goddamn shit_ if he very well pleases.

Patrick groans, resigned, and angles his head to let Pete get a better look.  He looks ghostly pale in the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom, flushed and sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead.  Pete presses the back of his hand to Patrick’s face and frowns.  “Babe, you’re burning up.”

“Gee, thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. House.”  Patrick coughs, violent and rattling.

“Hey, don’t get all snippy with me.  I’m still pissed that you didn’t call.”  Patrick glares up at him, seemingly unconcerned about his face’s proximity to the toilet seat.  Pete shakes his head.  “Get some sleep.  Tomorrow I’ll call Travie and the guys and then I’m taking you to the doctor.”

“You’re doing wha—”

“This isn’t a fucking _negotiation,_ ‘Trick!”  God, Pete is so fucking done with his shit.  “Don’t move, you hear me?  Stay put.  I’m getting you a glass of water.  Do we have anything for upset stomachs?”

He’s already storming into the kitchen as Patrick faintly calls, “Left side cabinet...second door...top shelf,” like he’s been waiting for this fucking moment his entire life.

Pete’s fuming, but under all his fury he’s pulsing with fear and he can’t seem to shake the awful thought that at this rate, Patrick’s probably going to die just to spite him.

 

**[…]**

 

An hour and one hastily gulped-down glass of water later and Patrick’s knocked out on their bed, curled up with the covers drawn low over his waist.  The same cannot be said for Pete—not necessarily because he can’t sleep (on the contrary; his eyes refuse to stay open), but because he doesn’t _want_ to sleep.  If something happens to Patrick and he can’t do anything to stop it because he’s not awake—fuck, he’ll never be able to forgive himself.  And how many times has Patrick stayed up with Pete after a nightmare or a bad spell?

No, Pete can’t fall asleep.  He can’t.  He can’t.  He can’t...

He falls asleep.

Not even half an hour after he dozes off his brain faintly registers a shift in weight on the other side of the bed, a creaking of bedsprings, then quick, light footsteps, all of which somehow manage to sneak their way into his dreams, warped and mistranslated and spouted out as some kind of nonsense and Pete almost doesn’t realize he’s supposed to be worried until he realizes the groaning sound in the other room is actually vomiting.

He really should go help Patrick, he thinks.  He’s going to help Patrick, and then he’s going to call Travie and then he’s going to drive Patrick to the doctor’s (because there is no way in _hell_ he’s letting that fucker drive) and they’re going to get this shit sorted the fuck out.

In the distance, there’s a coughing spell, and then frantic, panicked gasps for breath.

A crash.  A clanging.  A thud.

Pete’s up and moving before he even realizes what’s happening and when he finally makes it to the bathroom after what seems like an eternity, stumbling and cursing, his heart nearly stops.

Patrick’s having a seizure.  In the middle of their bathroom floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Well, that escalated quickly.
> 
> @ Pete and Patrick, wherever you are, I am so sorry, also please release the new single soon, I am dying with anticipation.
> 
> I'm sure there are a ton of medical inaccuracies in this and there will probably be a ton more but you know what? Artistic license ;-)


	4. thursday:  hospitals and anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hands won’t stop trembling. They never waver on the trigger, never so much as quiver on the job, but here, now, making a stupid _phone call_ —they can’t calm down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got long oops

Slippery fingers and misdialed phone numbers.  Distorted operators’ voices and stuttered, hyperventilated addresses.  (Pete forgot their apartment number, how could he be so stupid?)

Reassurances.  Dial tones.  Patrick writhing below him, struggling for air.  Pete has never been so thankful for that first aid course his dad made him take senior year of high school.

Sirens.  Paramedics. They broke down the door; Pete should’ve let them in.  Pete should’ve done a lot of things but he’s not thinking straight.  He feels numb and lightheaded and his hands are fucking shaking like a madman’s and his breathing is so goddamn shallow and the room is spinning around him and oh god, oh _god_ that’s _Patrick_ seizing in front of him, _Patrick_ who’s gone limp and won’t wake up, _Patrick his Patrick oh **fuck.**_

Zero to a hundred all at once.  Realization hits him like a wave, battering him, over and over again on the white tile floor, with the lights burning his eyes and his head pounding and too many people in that small room, that small room meant for the two of _them_ , for him and _Patrick,_ Patrick who’s lying motionless on the gurney with a mask over his face and Pete who’s trembling helplessly with his hands on his knees—

He sinks to the ground.

He’s never felt more useless.

 

**[…]**

 

The drive to the hospital is one long blur.  It feels slow until it’s not, until it’s over and Pete’s sitting in a waiting room chair with pain pressing against all sides of his head and nausea swirling in his throat and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Fifteen minutes are missing from his memory.  Too slow, too fast, all at once.

His hands won’t stop trembling.  They never waver on the trigger, never so much as quiver on the job, but here, now, making a stupid _phone call_ —they can’t calm down.  Nerves, nerves, nerves from head to toe.  An adrenaline rush of the worst kind, coursing like electricity through his veins.  He ends up dashing off a quick text and sending it to everyone on the team.  Copy, paste, send.  At least they won’t have to hear his voice shake.

They won’t let him see Patrick.  It’s not for lack of trying, because he tries, _god_ he tries, first by invoking the “desperate boyfriend” clause and when that doesn’t work, flashing the badge.  It seems like a good idea, until he realizes belatedly, and under the skeptical glare of a receptionist who’s seen everything, that he doesn’t actually have his badge.  He can’t even bring himself to be properly embarrassed.  Pathetic.

She tells him to have a seat, and that the doctors are doing everything they can.  Pete wonders how many people she’s had to feed that line to, how many variations and how many ways he could react to it.  He could revert to his self-control issues from five years ago, knock some shit around and get the police called on his sorry ass.  He wants to.  He can feel his hands curling into fists like Pacquiao, gearing up for the fight with Mayweather.  But unlike Manny, Pete has the benefit of foresight.  There’s no point in this fight.  He won’t win.

“Pete?”

It’s another voice that startles him out of his ruminating, a familiar one, but not one of his team’s.  This voice is sweet, feminine, untainted by cynicism.  When he looks up he’s met with kind blue eyes, a concerned frown, and a white lab coat.  The last time he saw her face, Brendon was in critical condition, and Patrick was by his side.

“Dr. O,” he says.  His voice is raw and nothing like hers.  He thinks Brendon once compared her voice to “the sound bluebells would make if they could sing”.  He clears his throat.  “You’re, um—you’re Patrick’s doctor?”

“Well, I’m in charge of the ER, so yes, technically.”  Sarah takes a seat beside him, her hands clasped, her eyes wide with sympathy.  “I’m so sorry, Pete, I know this must be hard for you.”

Pete lets out a huff, a bitter attempt at a laugh gone awry.  His vocal chords have gone on strike; his throat refuses to cooperate until further notice.  The carpet is an ugly mixture of greens and reds and the comparison to puke is too tempting but he can’t bring himself to look away.

“How long have you two been together?”

Pete presses his thumbs to his forehead.  He hasn’t seen Sarah in two years.  “Who told you?” he asks, thinking of Brendon.

“Patrick.”  Pete’s chest tightens and he lets out a breath, shuddering, slow.  Sarah’s voice is a gentle breeze, unchanging, unwavering.  “He was semi-conscious when we brought him in.  Kept asking for you, wanting to know where you were, if you were okay.  I put two and two together pretty quickly.”

Pete nods.  “Eight months,” he mumbles.  Not even a year, and things have already gone to shit.

Sarah congratulates him, and then says, “So I’m sure you want to know what’s wrong with him.”

Pete bites his lip.  Tears are gathering at the back of his eyes.  Everything just hurts so, so much.  “Just give it to me, doc,” he whispers, feeling himself choke at the end of the sentence.

“Well, right now, he’s dehydrated, and he’s running a high fever.  We’ve got him on antibiotics and plenty of fluids, but until the test results come back we’re basically running blind.”

“Can I see him?”

Sarah hesitates.  He can sense her discomfort, her uncertainty.  Professionalism versus empathy.  Pete tends to err on the side of the latter; Patrick toes the line between the two like a ballerina.  He’s pretty sure he knows where Sarah falls on the scale.

“He’s pretty exhausted,” she says finally.  “He might not be awake…but if he is, I’m sure he’d appreciate the company.”

Bulls-eye.

“Thanks, doc,” he says, and she nods and leads him to Patrick’s room.

 

**[…]**

 

Pete has experience with hospital rooms—a bit too much, for his liking.  This one’s pretty standard:  bed, heart monitor, ugly curtain divider.  Patrick’s situated next to the window but as far as Pete can tell, he doesn’t seem to be enjoying the view.

“Hey,” Pete says.

Patrick looks over at him.  His eyes are tired and Pete can sense the pain, so much it makes his heart ache.  “Hey.”  His voice is fragile and Pete barely recognizes it.  He offers a shaky smile that Pete can’t return.

“How you feeling?”  Pete feels like an idiot for asking it, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Like shit.”  Patrick coughs and latches onto Pete’s hand, and Pete’s stomach twists.  “God, I know what you’re gonna say,” Patrick sighs.  “I think...that’s the worst part about all of this.  The fact...the fact that you were right.”

Pete doesn’t laugh.  He runs his thumb over the pale skin of Patrick’s hand, tries to ignore the tubing going through the vein.  “Don’t scare me like this, Rick,” he says quietly.  “I can’t take any satisfaction in being right if it means you’re not okay.”

Patrick nods, eyes slipping shut.  God, he looks so weak, so small.  Pete wants nothing more than to climb into this bed and hold him close, tight, shield him from the rest of the world.  He can’t, though, can’t risk him getting any sicker than he already is, and so he settles for interlacing his fingers with Patrick’s and squeezing tight.

After a while, Patrick falls asleep.  Pete stays until the nurse kicks him out, Patrick’s soft, pained whimpers taunting him as he walks down the hallway.


	5. thursday, cont'd:  flash drives and revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen, I’m on my way over to your office. Sarah called me earlier, and after talking to her we pretty much came to the same conclusion but I wanted to tell you in person because there’s a lot of information we need to go over and I really think we should consider launching a full investigation—”
> 
> “Whoa, Dal, slow down, dude.” Dallon has a tendency to ramble on before anyone can actually figure out what he’s talking about. Considering Pete’s brain hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything since—well, since he left Patrick at the hospital a couple hours ago, he could really use an explanation. “What investigation, what are you talking about?”
> 
> “I’ll explain when I get there, but I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong with Patrick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very long update, because the plot is a-thickening and Dallon talks a lot.
> 
> Not sure how accurate my characterization of Dallon in this is, but whatever. I wanted him to be a bit of a smartass.
> 
> Also I watched Dallon's vines in the middle of writing this chapter and dear GOD he's such a dork why do I even

The case file sits untouched on Pete’s desk.

He’s been here all of ten minutes, and he hasn’t even bothered to look at it, let alone open it.  It’s not like he doesn’t know its contents, anyway—Karen Okada, aged 35, freelance journalist who disappeared out of the blue and was only reported missing when she didn’t return any of her sister’s calls.  Brendon’s working on decrypting her computer but from the sound of it, Ms. Okada had a lot of correspondence with a _lot_ of people, and apparently being a triple major in communications, journalism, and computer science meant knowing how to keep secrets, and _lots_ of them.

(“See, I don’t get why Chicago PD can’t do this shit themselves,” Brendon complained the last time Pete checked in with him.  “Plenty of comp-sci majors in the city looking for work, I don’t see why _I_ have to do everything around here.”

“Because you’re the fastest,” Pete replied.  They’ve had this conversation before. “Because you’re trained, and because we trust you, and because no comp-sci major in this city wants to go work for Chicago fuckin’ PD, so you’re all we got.  You should feel proud, dude.”

Brendon shook his head; if he hadn’t been furiously typing codes Pete had no hope in his lifetime of understanding, he probably would’ve flipped him off.  “I better get a raise for this, man,” he grumbled, “or at least buy me a drink or something.”

Pete reached around the side of Brendon’s wheelchair to pat him on the shoulder.  “I’ll talk to Travie, but in the meantime, keep typing.”)

That was yesterday morning.  Yesterday morning he left Patrick at home and drove to work and read up on case files and talked to detectives and scheduled interviews with people of interest; yesterday he texted Patrick “ _miss u <3_” and “ _what r u wearing ;) ;)_ ” and Patrick responded “ _Perv_ ” and then “ _A cardigan you creep_ ” and then sent him a picture of his lunch, and Pete responded “ _yum_ ” and “ _beats cafeteria food_ ” and Patrick told him “ _Start packing your own lunch, this isn’t high school anymore_ ” and that devolved into a whole argument about why Pete shouldn’t have to pack his own lunch which eventually culminated in Patrick’s last text to Pete:  “ _Fuck it.  I miss you too <3_”

Pete buries his face in his hands and tries not to break down in the middle of the bullpen.  If he’d known—if he’d only known…

“Hey, Pete?”

Hayley’s standing over him with a dossier tucked under her arm.  Out of all of them, she’s the only one who’s been able to concentrate on the task at hand; Joe hasn’t said a word to anyone since he got here, and Andy’s basically been viewing and re-viewing security tapes repeatedly with a laser-like focus he usually reserves for behind a rifle.

Pete peeks up at her, expecting to find her playing with her hands, staring at the desk and the pens and the computer monitor and anywhere but him.  Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around Pete, and it only makes him more nervous.  Hayley, though, remains perfectly still, perfectly focused, everything Pete isn’t.

“What is it, Hayley?” he asks.

“I noticed you haven’t touched your work.”

“So did I.”  Pete’s the senior field agent; he should be the one giving passive-aggressive lectures around here.

“This about Patrick?”

“What do you think?”

Rather than answer him, Hayley stares him down, like he’s a hardened criminal and she’s the agent tasked with interrogating him.  She’s gotten quite good at that over the past few years, almost as threatening as Andy, widely considered by everyone on the team to be the scariest guy in the room.  Pete actually feels chills and can’t hold her gaze.  “You really wanna know what I think, Agent Wentz?” Hayley says finally.

Pete caves.  “What do you think, Agent Williams?”  Hayley worked a desk job at FBI Memphis for about a year before she came to Chicago.  He thinks her natural talent for intimidation was wasted there.

“I think _you_ need to take your partner’s advice.”  She taps the computer monitor twice.  “What’s that our beloved Agent Stumph always tells us?  Work the case.”  Her hand moves to the folder in front of Pete and slides it toward him.  He stares blankly up at her, as if in protest.  She presses on.  “You know he’s in good hands, Pete.  You know Sarah’s one of the best doctors anyone could want and you don’t even need to go very far to see it, just ask Brendon or—or Gee.  But you _need_ to focus, Pete, or we’re not gonna find her.”

She’s got a point.  It doesn’t help that Patrick would probably tell him the same thing, but with a few profane insults sprinkled in and possibly the promise to “make it up to him” (nudge-nudge, wink-wink) when they got home later.  Pete scratches the back of his neck and takes another look at the case folder, externally so unassuming, but within its contents details of a life lived, a life possibly cut short prematurely, a life spanning 35 years summed up in a few key phrases and short sentences.  _Work the case, Wentz,_ Patrick’s voice scolds him in his head, _don’t worry about me._

“Okay,” he says finally, taking the folder and flipping it open.  “All right.  Thanks, Hayley.”

Hayley smiles kindly and returns to her desk, and Pete leans back in his chair, 89 percent sure that there is nothing in this folder that hasn’t already been combed through a hundred times.

If only Patrick were here.

 

**[…]**

 

Dallon calls him about an hour before his lunch break.  It’s unusual because for one thing, Dallon never calls anyone in the middle of the day except his wife, and for another, he’s driving, which means he’s not at the ME’s office where he usually is.

“Pete!” he says, sounding like he’s trying to talk over the sounds of the highway.  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Nope,” says Pete dully.  “Nothing at all.”

He’s gotten almost nowhere on this case so far.  The sister seems pretty much clueless on whatever Ms. Okada’s current project was, and the list of interviewees Brendon’s been compiling from the email records is currently about a mile long and counting.  Whenever he tries to read through the vic’s news blog he feels like he’s in high school taking notes again—seeing but not processing.  He needs a change of pace, and bad.

“Oh, good,” says Dallon.  “Listen, I’m on my way over to your office.  Sarah called me earlier, and after talking to her we pretty much came to the same conclusion but I wanted to tell you in person because there’s a lot of information we need to go over and I really think we should consider launching a full investigation—”

“Whoa, Dal, slow down, dude.”  Dallon has a tendency to ramble on before anyone can actually figure out what he’s talking about.  Considering Pete’s brain hasn’t been able to concentrate on anything since—well, since he left Patrick at the hospital a couple hours ago, he could really use an explanation.  “What investigation, what are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain when I get there, but I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong with Patrick.”

 

**[…]**

 

On a typical day, the bullpen Pete calls his office contains five people, one at each cubicle:  Pete, Andy, Joe, Hayley, and Patrick.  Today there are seven—Dallon showed up a few minutes ago, and as soon as Brendon and Gerard heard he was coming they dropped whatever they were doing and came upstairs, because those two can have the attention spans of goldfish when they really want to.  Dallon looks uncharacteristically disheveled, his hair flying every which way and his bow tie crooked; even more confusing is the fact that he’s got a USB stick dangling from a lanyard around his neck.  If Pete didn’t know any better, he’d think Dallon’s flown off the deep end.  Based on the looks Joe, Andy, and Brendon are shooting him, they seem to have reached that very conclusion.

“Here,” Dallon says, sounding somewhat breathless (did he run all the way over here?  God, he’s dedicated) as he hands over the flash drive.  “This has all my notes on it.  Plug it into your—your computer-monitor-thingy.”  Brendon and Joe start snickering in the background, and Dallon whirls around to glare at them.  “What?  I can use technology.  I’m not a dinosaur, thank you very much.”

“Nah, you’re just a dad,” Brendon replies with a shit-eating grin, “a tall, creepy, corpse-lovin’ dad.”  He reaches up to fist-bump Joe.  “Ain’t that right, Daddy Dal?”

“Call me that again and you’ll be next on my slab, Urie.”  Brendon rolls his eyes but says nothing further.  Besides Patrick, Pete’s pretty sure Dallon’s the only one who knows how to shut Brendon up.  “All right, pull up the files.”

Pete does, with a few clicks of a mouse and some quick typing.  Up on the plasma, various typewritten, tiny-print forms appear; Brendon strains through his glasses to read them and Pete resists the urge to stick his face in the screen.

“Mind telling us what this is all about?” he asks.

Dallon nods, springing up from his seat on Patrick’s empty desk to stand in front of the monitor.  “A few months ago, an old colleague of mine contacted me regarding the development of a chemical substance known as DCD-2.  It stands for—well, never mind, you won’t remember what it stands for, and it’s not…actually all that important anyway.  Whatever.  Point is, it’s a toxin.  A really dangerous, really deadly toxin.”

“Wait,” says Andy, looking perplexed.  “I thought the government discontinued their biological weapons program.”

“They did, but Dr. Crawford—my former colleague—found evidence of illicit medical experimentation going on at his facility in Trenton.  He was blackmailed into joining, but he’s been acting as an anonymous tipster and working in close conjunction with FBI Newark to try to get them shut down.  So far they’ve been under heavy investigation and forced to surrender all the products of their so-called ‘research’—”

Here Dallon makes physical air quotes, and Pete begrudgingly admits to himself that Brendon’s dad comparison isn’t actually all that far off.

“—but here’s the kicker:  less than a month ago, there was a break-in at the lab.  The vials containing DCD-2 and its antidote were stolen.  There was only enough to kill one person, but DCD-2—its effects are devastating.  The thief didn’t leave behind any physical evidence that could adequately identify them, and there’s been a lot of dead ends.”

“Wait, I know this case,” Gerard interjects.  He’s been quiet the whole time, probably listening intently and watching Dallon’s lips closely to ensure he catches every word, but the mention of the investigation in Newark sparks something in him.  “Yeah, I think Frankie told me about this one.  Said he was working a lot of late nights ‘cause of it and that’s why he had to cancel his trip out.  He didn’t tell me much, but he told me enough.”

Dallon nods.  “I’ve been talking on and off with Ian—Dr. Crawford—about it, but two weeks ago he just stopped sending messages.  Curious thing, really, and I can’t help but worry for him.  The last time we spoke he expressed concern that the vials weren’t even in New Jersey anymore.  I sort of forgot about the case after that, and then, Pete—then I got your message.”

Pete makes a point to focus his eyes on the monitor and not on Dallon.  He’s sure everyone in the room is offering similarly concerned, pitying expressions and he really, really does not want to deal with everyone’s pity.  Patrick would hate it, anyway—he hates pity, almost as much as he hates violent criminals and corrupt politicians.

“So…what’s this really about, Dallon?”  It’s Joe who asks, eyes wide and voice almost inaudible beneath the chatter surrounding their area.

Dallon falters.  He glances at his hands, takes in a long breath for the first time since starting his presentation.  Pete’s impressed he’s put this much thought into his research, on a case that isn’t even his, but the defeated, almost apprehensive look on Dallon’s face makes his blood curdle with dread.

For an awful, suspenseful moment, the room is dead silent.

Dallon fidgets, fiddling with his cuff links, and eventually regains the courage to address his colleagues.  “The defining characteristics of DCD-2 are hyponatremia, hypovolemic shock, and respiratory failure.  In other words, when someone ingests the poison, within hours they will experience lightheadedness, extreme nausea and vomiting, which in turn will lead to dehydration, high fever, and seizures, and as the poison continues to make its way through the body it will wreak havoc on the body’s internal system, hindering their ability to breathe and damaging their immune system beyond repair.  All within the span of a week.”

The full implications of Dallon’s reasoning hit Pete like a precision nuclear strike. This DCD-2 thing—that’s what Patrick has.  And he realizes it at about the same time as everyone else, because each person is looking at Dallon with alternating expressions of concern, disbelief, and fear.

“Jesus, Dal,” Brendon says, after a tense and uncomfortably long pause.  He actually starts slow-clapping, the little fucker.  “Wow.  Wow, dude.  Screw the dead bodies, man, you—you impressed me.  You should come to work with us full-time, your skill set’s being fuckin’ wasted on cutting people open.”

“Odd as it may seem to you, Brendon, some of us actually find cutting people open therapeutic,” replies Dallon, sounding resigned, and this sets off a whole debate over whether or not Dallon is a creepy asshole who blackmailed his wife into marrying him, but by this point Pete’s not even paying attention.

Patrick was poisoned.

Someone wanted to hurt his Patrick, make Patrick suffer.  Someone went all the way to fucking Trenton, New Jersey just to steal one fucking vial of one fucking poison that shouldn’t even exist to begin with, and out of all the people they could’ve hit with it, could’ve slipped it to when they weren’t looking, Patrick was their target of choice.

Pete can’t take this anymore.

He runs, runs until he can’t breathe, runs until he can’t hear himself think, and he doesn’t even notice he’s out in the parking lot until he’s collapsed against a tree, choked and weighted down by the enormity of his own sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, guys, I don't think I've ever been this motivated to work on something since I wrote that 6k-word narrative in 8th grade.
> 
> You may notice I edit a lot after I publish. Like, a heckton. This is because I am a perfectionist with too much time on my hands. Please love me :)


	6. friday:  coffee shops and people of interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete, meanwhile, is left to—in Andy’s words—“talk to Patrick, retrace his steps, and figure out how the hell this happened”, which is how he and Andy end up at Fields and Pier, the only place Pete knows for certain Patrick went in the two days before—well, _before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, the fun thing about writing mysteries is that it's almost like you're trying to solve the puzzle yourself by figuring out how all the pieces fit together.
> 
> That being said, this chapter is a little less exciting. Things pick up in the next chapter ;)

Travie greenlights the investigation.

Andy takes point, which Pete’s not thrilled about, but it was that or watch from the sidelines while Asher and Blackinton’s team worked the case.  Not that Vicky and Ryland aren’t damn good agents, but they’re not Pete’s team.  More importantly, they’re not _Patrick’s_ team.

“I trust you, man,” Travie tells Pete sternly, his face at once tired and frustratingly hard to read.  “Just—try not to let your emotions get the best of you.  If I find any evidence—any evidence at _all_ that your personal feelings are preventing you from doing your job, you’re not emotionally stable, whatever—”

He jerks a thumb back over his shoulder.  Pete gets the message.

“We won’t let you down, Trav—sir,” he says, voice hard.

“I’m not worried about you lettin’ _me_ down,” Travie says, and something changes in his expression, his eyes wandering to one of the framed pictures on his desk.  Pete can’t see it, but he recognizes it from memory—it’s an old shot of Travie and Patrick from back at Quantico.  Beside him, Andy stiffens.

Travie takes a moment to breathe; when his eyes meet Pete’s again, they’re steely, determined.  “Just—do me a favor, and catch the son of a bitch.”

 

**[…]**

 

Their first priority is figuring out who broke into the research facility at Trenton.  Hayley’s tasked with finding Dr. Crawford, aided by Dallon; Joe’s contacting Iero in Newark with details on their ongoing investigation and Brendon’s looking into the lab’s history and records.

Pete, meanwhile, is left to—in Andy’s words—“talk to Patrick, retrace his steps, and figure out how the hell this happened”, which is how he and Andy end up at Fields and Pier, the only place Pete knows for certain Patrick went in the two days before—well, _before._

“So this is that place Patrick’s always talking about?” asks Andy, eyes sweeping over the stained beige walls, the handwritten chalkboard menu, the various Polaroids and watercolors decorating the space.  Quiet acoustic guitar filters through overhead speakers.

“Yeah, it’s his favorite,” Pete says, running a finger along the wood paneling.  He and Patrick take lunch breaks here a few times a month, but he himself has never been here solo.  “Says their pumpkin squares are almost as good as his mom’s.”

Andy nods approvingly.  “It’s nice.”

“You should see it when it’s busy.”

They’ve come here at the brief interval between when the shop closes for the morning and reopens for the afternoon.  Pete’s never been here when it’s so empty.  Combine that with the fact that Patrick’s not here by his side, with an arm hooked around his waist and an order on the tip of his tongue, and Pete feels startlingly out of place.  There’s no one to hide behind, no warm, familiar presence to ground him.  He feels naked, vulnerable.

Andy looks at him with pinched lips and a furrowed, questioning brow, and Pete waves him off.  He’s here on duty.  He can worry about Patrick later.

There’s a bell on the counter and Pete taps it, gentle, but enough that it rings loud and clear and reverberates through his eardrums.  “FBI,” he shouts.  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Indistinct chattering and a nervous-sounding laugh, and then a voice calls, “Be out in a sec!”  Pete leans one arm on the granite countertop and absently drums his fingers on the display case as he waits; Andy continues to stand behind him, still and silent as a sentry.

From the back room, a bearded man emerges, with dark hair tied back in a bun and eyes that match the green of his apron.  His name tag says _Avi_ ; Pete’s pretty sure he’s the manager.  “Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Avi says, voice deep and reminiscent of a finely-tuned bass guitar.  His eyes widen with recognition at Pete and he points, smiling.  “You’re Patrick’s boyfriend.  Pete, right?”

“Special Agent Wentz, actually,” Pete says, inwardly wincing at how formal and detached his tone is.  He pulls out his badge and gestures to Andy, who follows suit.  “This is Special Agent Hurley.”

“We’re here about Patrick, actually,” Andy explains, pulling out his notepad and clicking open his pen.  “We understand he was here for lunch Tuesday and Wednesday.”

“Yeah, right over there by the window in the back, actually.”  Avi points to a spot in the corner, relatively isolated from the crowd.  Pete frowns.  Usually he and Patrick sit by the door; Patrick hates having that cramped feeling.  Unless…

“Was he meeting anyone?” he asks Avi.

“Yeah, actually,” Avi says, sounding surprised.  “On—Tuesday, I think, some guy in a suit came in with a briefcase and sat across from him, and then Wednesday—Wednesday I saw him with a lady in a suit.”

“A lady in a suit?” Pete asks, as Andy jots it down.

“Yeah, I think they were friends or something.  I mean, he hugged her before she sat down.  Which is more than I can say for the other guy—I don’t think they knew each other all that well.”

Pete and Andy exchange a look.  Who could Patrick have been meeting with—and why all the secrecy?

“Hey, is Patrick in trouble?” Avi asks, concerned.  “He’s one of my best customers, if anything’s happened to him—”

“We have reason to believe that Patrick may have been poisoned,” Andy says.

Avi’s face falls.  “Oh gosh, is he okay?”

Pete looks down at his shoes, unable to speak.  “He’s stable,” says Andy, calm as ever.  “But his illness is progressing, and at a fairly rapid rate.”

Avi bows his head, folding his arms across his chest.  “I’m—I’m so sorry, I just—you don’t think it happened here, did it?”

“We’re not sure,” Pete mutters, at the same time Andy says, “We’d like to have a look around, if you don’t mind.”

“Y-yeah, sure, anything,” Avi says, stunned.

Andy and Pete sweep the dining area first.  The tables have been recently wiped down, so there aren’t any fingerprints, and the floor has been vacuumed clean of any fibers that might have identified Patrick’s mysterious dining partners.  _Damn this café and the bold letter A plastered on its front window._

They hit the kitchen next, swabbing and taking samples and prints from the back.  Avi and another employee, thin and pretty with cheekbones that could kill a man, watch from the side the whole time.  Pete feels their eyes boring into his back like lasers.

By the time they’re finished, it’s five minutes to opening time, and they’ve amassed a considerable amount of sample bags.  They can’t do much without a warrant, but it’s a start.

Avi and the other barista— _Mitch_ on his name tag—continue to stand there, worry etched on their faces.  He knows logically, they may be suspects, but his gut’s telling him otherwise.

“If it’s any consolation,” he tells them, “we don’t think you did this.”  In his peripheral, Andy shakes his head warningly.  Pete doesn’t care.  He trusts his instinct.

“God, no, never,” says Mitch, shaking his head fervently.  His voice is high-pitched and feminine.  “This is the first I’ve heard of any poison.”

“How many employees do you have?” Andy asks.

“We rotate about ten, twelve of them,” Avi replies.

“We’ll need names and numbers of all of them.”

Avi nods, quickly scrawling out a list before tearing it out and handing it to Andy, who pockets it.  They’ll go through them later, but Pete wants to narrow the suspect pool further.

“Who was on duty when Patrick was here?” he asks.

“Oh gosh,” Avi says, running a hand through his hair.  “Uh, let’s see, it was me, Mitch, Kirstie—”

“Don’t forget Scott,” Mitch adds.  “Kevin, I think was sick—oh!”  Mitch snaps his fingers.  “There was this—this new guy, I don’t remember his name, Dave—Dave something.  He started—last Tuesday, I think?”

“Yeah, Tuesday,” Avi confirms.

“How’d he look?” Pete blurts, then, composing himself, “I mean, was there anything strange or—or unusual about him you noticed, behavior, anything…?”

“No, I mean I guess he kept to himself, if that counts…” Mitch frowns thoughtfully.  “He did—he did wear gloves.  That was kinda weird.  But I don’t know, I just thought he had, like, a hang-up about personal hygiene or something.”

Gloves.  No fingerprints.  Less likely to leave a trace.

 _That’s the one,_ Pete thinks.  _It’s gotta be._

“Thank you,” he says, “you’ve been very helpful.”  The four exchange business cards and handshakes, with Andy commenting that they might be back later to do a more thorough search of the café and Mitch agreeing to come in and work with a sketch artist on this “Dave” character if need be.

As they’re exiting the building, Avi calls after them, “Wait, Agent Wentz, before you go,” and jogs up, handing Pete a paper bag.  “On the house,” he says, patting Pete on the arm, before returning to work.

In the car, Pete opens the bag and examines its contents:  a cup of minestrone, two plastic spoons, a handful of napkins, a handwritten get-well note for Patrick—and, tucked away at the very bottom, a carefully-wrapped pumpkin square.

Pete closes his eyes and hugs the bag to his chest the entire ride back to the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the cameos?
> 
> *Drew Carey voice* 1000 points to anyone who knows where the name Fields and Pier came from ;)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave prompts/suggestions in the comments section! I'm also on [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/wanderlustnostalgia) if you want to stop by and say hello <3


	7. saturday:  pumpkin squares and bad news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More coughing, longer this time. Pete squeezes his eyes shut; each repetition of the sound is like a pickaxe chipping away at his heart. Patrick’s breathing is rapid, shallow. He wasn’t this bad yesterday, Pete thinks. His nose is tingling. It hasn’t been five minutes yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up that updates might be coming out slower than usual (real-life stuff, ugh), but I will try to work on this as much as I can <3
> 
> Hmm, we haven't checked on Patrick in a while...interesting.

**_~ Two weeks earlier_ **

_“What the actual fuck are you doing up so early?”_

_Patrick looks over at him, startled, and through bleary eyes Pete can see him sitting cross-legged, his computer placed in his lap.  There’s some kind of folder sitting next to his knee.  Patrick’s sleeves have been pulled over his hands.  His hair is a bird’s nest.  It’s adorable._

_“Uh…noth—ah, just—just going through some—some stuff,” Patrick says hastily, slowly pushing his laptop closed.  He makes a face and gesticulates wildly with one hand, an attempt at nonchalant that is fooling absolutely no one.  “No big deal.”_

_“_ Right, _” Pete mutters, propping himself up on one elbow.  “You’re not keeping secrets from me, are you, ‘Trick?”_

_He brushes a fist against Patrick’s cheek, light, playful; Patrick makes a protesting noise and pushes his hand away.  “Stop it.  Go back to sleep.”_

_“I will_ not, _” Pete objects.  “You didn’t answer my question.”_

_Patrick places a hand to his forehead and combs his hair back with his fingers, so it sticks up.  “When you need to know, I’ll tell you.  ‘Til then, this—this is my business.”_

_“I’m wounded, ‘Trick.”_

_Pete’s only half-joking.  Nonetheless, he milks it, shifting his head into Patrick’s lap and gazing up at him with large, puppy-dog eyes.  Patrick looks unamused._

_“Are you done?” he asks._

_“I thought we were in this together,” Pete answers, pretending to pout._

_Patrick sighs, placing his laptop off to the side before dropping a quick peck to Pete’s forehead.  “Of course we’re in this together,” he murmurs, caressing Pete’s cheek with the back of his hand.  Pete closes his eyes, relaxes into the touch.  “Just give me some time, babe.  I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”_

_“’F you say so,” Pete mumbles sleepily._

_He falls asleep with his head in Patrick’s lap and Patrick’s touch still fresh in his mind._

 

**[…]**

 

It’s the speedbump that brings him back.

Pete blinks, struggling to regain his bearings.  He’s behind the wheel of Patrick’s sedan, on his way to the hospital.  Andy and the others are all working today, probably processing the café and talking to the staff, but Pete’s got his own job to do, one that, hopefully, will provide insight as to the mentality and identity of their perp.

He’s not sure if Patrick’s up to talking, or even having company.  Last night’s visit was cut short by a coughing fit that must have lasted at least five minutes after Pete left.  (He hopes Joe enjoyed the minestrone; Pete sort of lost his appetite when Patrick started vomiting blood.)  But the visit with Avi and Mitch opened a lot of questions, and Pete needs answers.  He needs answers, or else Patrick—well, Pete doesn’t want to think about _or else_ right now.

 _Just breathe,_ he tells himself.  Journey’s playing on the radio; he turns it up a little louder and nods in time with the beat.  _Before you know it, this’ll be over, and Patrick will be kicking your ass for worrying about him at all._

**[…]**

 

“Hey, babe.”

Patrick’s alone when Pete enters the room.  He doesn’t move or do anything to acknowledge Pete’s presence, and Pete tightens his grip on the paper bag in his hand, bracing himself for the emotional sting he knows he’ll feel in a few minutes.  He can’t let Patrick see him weak.

“Brought you something,” Pete says, placing the bag on the bedside table before settling into the large chair beside it.  Patrick watches him through half-lidded, unfocused eyes as he carefully extracts, then unwraps the slightly rumpled pastry.

“Shit, sorry,” Pete says, frowning.  “It got—a little smooshed.  But it should still be good…here—”

He rummages through the bag, pulling out a small container.  “Some whipped cream, if you want it,” he tells Patrick.

“You can ’ave it.”  Patrick coughs, grimacing; for a second Pete’s heart lurches, but the fit subsides.  He lies back down, panting; there are tears in the corners of his eyes.  “I pro’lly won’t be able to keep it down, anyway,” he says feebly.

Pete sighs and nods, defeated.  He can’t bring himself to look at Patrick again, too scared of what suffering he’ll find next in those weary eyes.  His hands are empty.  He wishes he had something to do with them.

“Did you—” Patrick coughs again, once, twice.  “—you come all this way to drop off a pumpkin square…?”

Oh, right.  The case.

“’Trick,” Pete croaks.  He clears his throat, rubs his hands together, tries to find a way to word this in the gentlest way possible.  “’Trick, Andy and I visited Avi at Fields and Pier yesterday.”

More coughing, longer this time.  Pete squeezes his eyes shut; each repetition of the sound is like a pickaxe chipping away at his heart.  Patrick’s breathing is rapid, shallow.  He wasn’t this bad yesterday, Pete thinks.  His nose is tingling.  It hasn’t been five minutes yet.

“‘Trick—‘Trick, do I need to get the nurse—?”

Pete reaches for the button, but Patrick stops him, covering Pete’s hand with his own.

“Don’t…don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Patrick whispers, panting.  Pete can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest and Patrick’s wincing, eyes closed, but his voice is as firm as can possibly be given his condition.  “And don’t…don’t make me—don’t make me do that again, please…hurts too much.”

Patrick’s hand drops, falls limp at his side.  Pete takes it and yeah, he can feel tears starting up now.  Patrick’s hold on him has never felt so frail, so fleeting.

“Listen,” Patrick tells him, and Pete has to strain to hear his voice, it’s so quiet.  “I—I need…there’s something I need—need to tell you.”

“Yeah?”  Pete leans forward, curls his fingers around Patrick’s palm.  He tries to find Patrick’s pulse, something to ground him; all he finds is cold skin.

Patrick draws a shuddering breath; the mask on his face fogs up when he exhales.  “Christ, ’m tired,” he mumbles.

“‘Trick, _focus._ ”  Pete’s voice is trembling.  He swipes at his eyes and taps Patrick’s cheek, tilting Patrick’s head towards him; the movement makes Patrick moan in pain.  “Baby, hey, stay with me, I need you to listen to me.  Avi told me you were meeting with someone Tuesday and Wednesday.  Who were you meeting with?”

Patrick’s inhales grow sharper, more frantic.  He starts to speak, but his lungs are fighting for air and he’s wheezing, straining for breath.

“Patrick—!”

Pete slams the nurse call button just as Patrick starts coughing, body shaking with violent tremors, and it’s like that first night in the bathroom except worse, because Patrick’s already sick, because he’s too fucking weak to protest, because his lungs aren’t even getting any air, because Pete can feel a slamming pain in his chest and he knows it must be ten times worse for Patrick.

He’s suddenly aware of everything—the overhead lights and the earsplitting shrieks of the monitors and the stampede of footsteps and Patrick’s body racked with coughs and it’s too loud, too loud, and he’s trying to scream but the sound dies in his throat, and there’s tears streaming down his face and someone’s pulling him, trying to drag him out of the room but his feet are like lead and fuck, _fuck,_ it’s too much, _it’s too much_ —

In the midst of all the chaos, Patrick goes still.

 

**[…]**

 

“There’s no easy way for me to put this,” says Sarah, face sober.

And fuck, there’s the problem right there:  when even Sarah can’t find a way to be positive, you know something’s seriously fucking wrong.  Pete hugs his knees to his chest and curls in deep on himself.  Patrick can’t comfort him.  Patrick can’t even fucking _breathe._

“While you were with him, he experienced respiratory distress,” Sarah continues quietly.  “I think the toxin’s causing fluid to accumulate in his lungs, which is making it difficult for him to breathe on his own.  We’re sedating him, we’re putting him on a ventilator to help him breathe, and we’re moving him to ICU.”

Pete chokes out a sob.  “Fuck,” he mumbles.  She might as well have told him to roll the dice and hope for the best.

“I’ve got him on medication,” Sarah tells him.  “I might be able to buy you a day, two if we’re lucky.  Three might be pushing it a little.”

Pete nods slowly.  He knows he should be thankful.  The miracles of modern medicine and all that.  But if it weren’t for modern medicine, if it weren’t for some bastard in a lab coat trying to play god like fucking Frankenstein, none of this would be happening, and maybe he and Patrick would be curled up on the living room couch watching reruns of _Full House_ and debating over whether or not to get a dog and maybe they would be okay.  Maybe Patrick would be okay.

“Pete, there’s something I need you to know.”

Pete buries his face in his knees.  He should’ve asked her for the worst news first.  Since when has delayed gratification ever worked in his favor, anyway?

“Pete, I’m telling you this now so that you won’t freak out on me later.  When we were working on Patrick…”  Sarah trails off.  The investigator part of Pete’s brain reads between the lines and fills in the blanks for him, but his consciousness refuses to accept the conclusion.  He can’t.  He won’t.  Not until he hears it from her.

A sigh.  Sarah’s shoulders droop, and then she says, “We almost lost him, Pete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me is really, really sorry and the other part of me is really, really not.
> 
> In other news, "Champion" comes out Thursday and I AM NOT PREPARED


	8. saturday, cont'd:  voicemails and takeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I know you turned off your cell, and I know talking is—probably the last thing you wanna do right now. But—shit, I suck at this. This whole emotional support thing. Just—fuck it, whatever. I’m here for you, okay? If you need to talk, or—or, you know, whatever. Dallon, Joe, Hayley, Andy, Gee—they’re here too. You’re not alone in this. We got your back, dude.”_

It’s been two hours.

The apartment is silent save for the ticking of the clock overhead; Pete, its lone occupant, lies face-first on the carpet, his heartbeat thudding dully in his chest.  He cried out the last of his tears in the hospital parking lot, fists pounding against the dashboard as he cursed God and everyone imaginable for allowing this to happen, and now he’s just—numb.  Numb to the core.

The phone rings.  It’s probably Andy, or Dallon.  Maybe Travie—someone who heard about the news from Sarah and wants to offer a shoulder to cry on.  It’s a waste of effort.  Pete doesn’t need a shoulder.  The one person Pete needs is lying unconscious in the ICU and no amount of crying or concern can fix that.

_“Pete, it’s me.  I, uh—I heard what happened.  Fuck, man, I’m really sorry.”_

It’s Brendon.  Pete’s surprised and yet, at the same time, he really isn’t.

_“I know you turned off your cell, and I know talking is—probably the last thing you wanna do right now.  But—shit, I suck at this.  This whole emotional support thing.  Just—fuck it, whatever.  I’m here for you, okay?  If you need to talk, or—or, you know, whatever.  Dallon, Joe, Hayley, Andy, Gee—they’re here too.  You’re not alone in this.  We got your back, dude.”_

The message ends and Pete’s not sure how to feel.  Lying here, by himself, in the low mid-afternoon light on the floor, it feels like the world has come to a standstill around him.  Time crawls on, but everything is frozen.  Nothing exists anymore but Pete’s apartment; everything and everyone else is nonexistent, dissipating into the void.  Pete is completely alone.

But then the illusion is broken, and Pete remembers there is a world full of people outside these walls and maybe one of them can’t be there for him right now but there are five others who can, five more who can help Pete through this.  He doesn’t have to do this alone.

He _can’t_ do this alone.

It’s a few minutes before Pete can convince himself to get up, and when he does the vertigo nearly knocks him back down on his ass, but he grips the edge of a chair and manages to refocus enough to realize the phone is ringing again.  He picks it up but doesn’t say anything.

“Hey, you picked up,” says Brendon, sounding amazed.  “How ‘bout that.  Looks like Dal owes me twenty bucks.”

“You _bet_ on me?”

“Nah, even I’m not that cruel.  But seriously, I’m glad you called.  We’re all worried about you.”

“’M fine,” Pete mumbles, shrugging a shoulder for emphasis even though Brendon can’t see him.

“You don’t have to pretend, Pete,” Brendon replies.  He sounds unusually solemn and it’s kind of off-putting.  There’s a pause, and then he continues, “You’re not the only one who’s had to watch your best friend die, you know.”

Pete swallows thickly.  “Patrick’s not dead,” he says quietly, but even as he says it there’s an element of doubt in his words and a twist in his stomach.

“I know,” Brendon says, calm, even.  It took him months to be able to reach this point, just accepting everything that’s happened.  “I’m just saying, we’ve been through this before.  We know what you’re going through, Pete.”

Pete doesn’t doubt it.  Brendon and Gerard and everyone on the team, even Dallon—they’ve all loved and lost under dire, terrible circumstances.  But explosions and firefights are different from a poison that takes a week to kill its victims.

“It’s not the same,” he says, wincing at the crack in his voice.  He clears his throat.  “This wasn’t some wrong-place, wrong-time bullshit, Bren.  They _targeted_ him.”  Pete sniffs, wills the emotion to leave his voice.  “They wanted to hurt him.”

Brendon sighs.  “Look, man, all I’m saying is I wanna be there for you.  Just like you were for me and Spence, and how you helped Gee out when Mikey…you know.  But I can’t do that if you won’t let me.”

For a moment, Pete stands there, deliberating.  He closes his eyes and thinks of Ryan, and Jon, and Mikey and William, lets the memories of his departed colleagues come and go.  And it is different, because they were gone in the blink of an eye and left behind survivors who had a lot more hurdles to overcome beyond mere grief.  But here, at least, Pete has a chance.  He still has time.  He can save Patrick.

“’Kay,” he says finally.  “But can we—can we not…you know…”  He trails off, knowing what he wants to say but unsure of how to say it.

Brendon seems to understand.  “How ‘bout this:  you come to my place, and I’ll order takeout and we can watch TV and fuck around as much as you want.”  Pete opens his mouth to protest, but Brendon adds, “That wasn’t a request, by the way,” before the words leave his mouth.

“Fine,” Pete concedes.  The combination of anxiety and relief he feels is strange and almost indescribable.  “Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight,” Brendon agrees.  “Don’t flake out on me, man.  I know where you live.”

 

**[…]**

 

Brendon orders pizza.  It’s deep-dish, Pete’s go-to comfort food from the place they usually go to celebrate when they finish a case, and they don’t say a word to each other as they eat, only sit and chew and watch the news scroll by on the screen.

Pete’s halfway through his second slice when the mayor of Chicago’s face appears on the screen, all taut skin and overbleached white teeth, with slicked back hair in desperate need of a trim.  Below him, the banner reads:  **_SINCLAIR ANNOUNCES NEW MEDICAL RESEARCH INITIATIVE._**

“Well, well.  Isn’t that interesting.”  Brendon’s jaw clenches and he scoffs, taking a long sip of his beer.  “A _medical research_ initiative, huh?  Think he has the cure for this DCD-2 bullshit?”

“It’d be convenient,” Pete admits.  Outrageous as it may seem to certain dedicated citizens of the metropolitan Chicago area, he couldn’t care less what the mayor does.  As long as he’s not fucking up Pete’s life or going around stealing money from innocent civilians, it’s none of Pete’s business.

Brendon, on the other hand, says, “Enough of this garbage,” and turns off the TV, visibly pissed.  After popping the last breadstick in his mouth, he wheels his chair over to the couch, gesturing for Pete to follow.

Pete finishes his pizza and settles tentatively into a spot on the end, close to where Brendon’s parked himself.  He leans on the armrest and settles his chin on his hands; from here he’s about eye-level with Brendon.  “Spence isn’t home?” he asks.

“No, he, uh—he had support group.  He says hi, though.”  Brendon takes another sip and offers one to Pete, who declines.  “Listen, ‘s it okay if we talk, like, work and stuff?” Brendon asks him.  “I mean, it’s okay if you’re not, like—you know—up to it, or whatever, but a lot of stuff happened while you were gone and I kinda feel like I should fill you in, just so you’re not, you know, lost or whatever.”

Pete shrugs.  Part of him would be content enough to sit in silence, but the part of him that’s always working through clues and trying to figure out how the pieces of the puzzle fit together wants to listen for something—anything that might be useful, anything that might lead him to the antidote.

“I guess,” he says finally.  “’F you think it’ll help.”

Brendon starts to take another swig from the bottle and frowns when he realizes he’s drained the whole thing.  “Ah, fuck it,” he says, setting it down on the coffee table.  “I’m an exciting enough storyteller, right?”

He recaps the day’s events for Pete’s benefit:  Dallon and Hayley managed to locate the missing Dr. Crawford (“He’s—interesting.  Kinda shifty, like one of those paranoid conspiracy theorists, y’know?”), but turned up basically no useful information other than he doesn’t think the Bureau can protect him (“You should’ve seen the look on Dallon’s face, man, he looked like he wanted to fuckin’ rip the guy’s dick off or something”).

When Pete huffs out something like a snort, Brendon says, “That was the good news.  I know it wasn’t very good.  Trust me, it gets worse.”

 _Worse_ meaning Joe and Andy got a call from a very pissed-off Iero in Newark—“There was a glitch in the system,” Brendon explains.  “Some bullshit, I won’t even get into it ‘cause you won’t get it and it pisses me off if I think about it too much, but basically it turns out our guy didn’t just steal one vial of DCD-2.  He stole three.”

Pete stares at Brendon in disbelief.  _Three_ vials?  But—then that means Patrick might not have been the only target.  And—fuck, now they have two more victims to worry about?  “Please tell me you found something in the lab records,” he says.

Brendon shakes his head apologetically.  “Sorry, dude.  Just a lot of boring science-y shit.  I know, I know, I had Dal and Gee look over it and they told me to ignore it, so.  But—”

He leans forward to grab his bag off the coffee table and pulls out his laptop.  “Gimme a sec,” Brendon says, typing fast and rhythmic, before swiveling his computer to face Pete.

It’s a series of email transcripts.  A lot of them.  Pete skims over them and finds a few names he recognizes as well as some keywords that stick out at him (“confidential” and “he can’t know” among them), but nothing seeming pertinent to the case.  “What does Karen Okada have to do with any of this?” he asks Brendon.

“Shit, sorry,” Brendon says, realizing his error.  He starts typing again.  “I cracked those emails on her computer for Vicky.  Yeah, I know, about fuckin’ time, right?  But here’s what’s weird—the last person she talked to, right before she disappeared, that mayor’s aide—McEnroe?  The one who got shot in her apartment.”

“Huh.”  Pete’s familiar with the Paula McEnroe case—he’s friends with the lead detective, and on their last encounter at the bar Pritchard had knocked back more shots than usual and proceeded to complain about how she didn’t have any leads and “I know there’s something more to this case and it’s got something to do with that goddamned mayor, but we don’t have any evidence.”  What are the odds of Pritchard’s victim being in correspondence with their missing journalist?

At any rate, it doesn’t matter, because Brendon says, “A-ha,” and triumphantly produces on his screen a face.  Well, a digital composite, at least.

“Gee met with the kid from the café,” Brendon tells him.  “He’s really good with faces.  Uses it to make his boyfriend jealous, apparently.”

Pete studies the face.  Dark eyes, thick brows, prominent forehead, heavy stubble on the jawline—and shoulder-length brown hair.  Pete’s met a lot of guys like this in his lifetime—and yet, strangely, something about this one seems vaguely familiar.

“I feel like I’ve seen this guy before,” he says.

“You too, huh?”  Brendon chuckles.  “Yeah, Gee thought the same thing.  I told him he was crazy.”  Brendon squints at the screen and makes a _hmm, that’s interesting_ noise.  “Actually, come to think of it, he kinda looks like Saporta.”

It’s an offhand remark, but something goes off in Pete’s brain when Brendon says this and suddenly he’s got his phone out and is frantically scrolling through Facebook to find a good picture for comparison.  Because it _does_ look like their former colleague—a _lot_ like him.  Too much to be a coincidence, Pete thinks.

“Wait, you don’t actually think _Gabe_ did this,” Brendon says incredulously, and Pete can hardly blame him; Gabe moved back to New York a year and a half ago and has absolutely no good reason to hurt Patrick.  But the resemblance is so strong, and a few months ago he overheard Suarez tell Ryland that Gabe had asked him to help pay off some gambling debts.  It’s a very weak hunch, and it still doesn’t explain why Patrick was targeted, but it’s the closest lead they’ve got.

“Call Andy,” he tells Brendon.  “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I wouldn't make good on that "killing off your faves" threat, huh? That's a story for another time, though.


	9. sunday:  nightmares and folders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of it looks familiar, and as Pete flips through the pages it becomes increasingly clear that this was a case neither he nor Patrick was professionally involved in. And yet—towards the back he finds a series of diagrams and scribbled notes on binder paper, all in Patrick’s handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have mixed feelings about this chapter but oh well.

Pete’s sleep that night is a fitful blur.

It’s like fever dreams on steroids, the events of the past few days all tossed in a blender, discombobulated and reconfigured into some kind of terrifying nonsense that is somehow still grounded in reality.  The torment is ceaseless:  he wakes from one scene only to be thrown into another, tossing, turning, twisting in the covers, the tide pulling him under, over and over and drowning him alive.  He can’t keep track of it all—minestrone vomit and infinite stairwells and twisting passageways and voices far off in the distance and a hospital room that somehow turns into a morgue and Patrick’s face, pale and waxen and still intubated even as the cacophony of the heart monitor proclaims his death to the world.  Pete barely has time to gasp out a sob before he’s standing in front of a headstone, dead flowers clutched tightly in his hand.

The jarring quiet of the graveyard finally wakes him, gasping and sweating with his heart racing ( _palpitations-tachycardia-toofast-toofast-stopstop **STOP**_ ) and his head pounding and dizzy.  It’s still dark out.  He winces when he lifts his head and manages to squint at the clock:  4:30.   The world delights in his misery.

He flips on the light and reaches for his phone, forcing his eyes open even as the light threatens to blind him.  The image of Patrick’s lifeless body and Patrick’s name on that headstone are too fresh in his mind and for a frightening moment he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not, can’t remember if he left Patrick dead or alive, he’s too late _oh God he’s too late_ —

Half-delirious and through shaking fingers, he types out a frantic message to the night nurse, Elisa, who responds with the reassurance that Patrick is still very much critical, but alive.  Pete stares down at the text and feels his eyes start to water; he swipes at them with the back of his hand and takes in a slow, deep breath.  Patrick’s alive.  He’s far from okay, but he’s alive.

Eventually his pulse slows down enough that he no longer feels like he’s dying, but Pete still has no desire to go back to sleep.  He trudges into the hallway, searching for something to do.  Patrick’s books are stacked on the coffee table, music theory and Daoist philosophy and all this other nerdy shit Pete thinks would only serve to aggravate his headache; he resists the urge to hurl _Hitchhiker’s Guide_ across the room.  There’s nothing on TV this early in the morning and popping in a DVD feels like sacrilege without Patrick there to argue with him over his movie tastes.

He’s about to resign himself to sitting in bed and staring at the wall until the sun rises when he notices Patrick’s work bag lying by the door, nowhere near its usual place near the foot of their bed.  There’s an unfamiliar folder sticking out of the front pocket, hastily shoved in; Patrick must’ve been working on something before he got sick.

But— _what?_

Pete grabs the folder and takes it back to bed with him.  It’s a nondescript file folder, no Bureau insignia or anything hinting at its contents, but there’s a Post-It stuck to the front with Patrick’s distinctive scrawl reading **_call L abt mtg @ F+P Wed._** and **_ask Pete fr details re:  Okada case_** _._

He opens the folder and comes face-to-face with a typewritten Chicago PD homicide report.  None of it looks familiar, and as Pete flips through the pages it becomes increasingly clear that this was a case neither he nor Patrick was professionally involved in.  And yet—towards the back he finds a series of diagrams and scribbled notes on binder paper, all in Patrick’s handwriting.

Pete goes back to the cover page, and when he reads the summary his brain hits on the name McEnroe.  Paula McEnroe—the murdered mayor’s aide.  This isn’t a federal investigation—what the _hell_ is the case report doing in Patrick’s bag?

Wide awake now, he scans through Patrick’s notes, deciphering parts of his shorthand from experience and using context clues to fill in the rest.  He can see the beginnings of hypotheses in bullet-point phrases that turn to questions, rejected theories in the form of strikethroughs, Patrick’s excitement when he hits a groove taking shape in circles, underlines, and exclamation points.  It’s a bit too scattered and difficult for Pete to construct into something coherent, at least mentally, but he can see pieces of ideas— ** _silencer + gloves = HIT (not random!!!)_**; **_mayor’s pet projects?? Mtg w/senator nxt wk— WHY???_**—and he knows that Patrick must have found something the police overlooked.

And, oh God, so much of this is _illegal_ —sharing details of an open investigation with people not on the case, _investigating_ outside of federal capacity—but at the same time Pete doesn’t care, because Patrick’s gotten so invested and so has he, sucked into all the details of this case that isn’t even his like it’s a suspense thriller and he’s a literary junkie craving a fix.

He doesn’t make the connection until halfway through the packet, and when he does he nearly bangs his head against the wall; it was so _obvious._

**_Call L abt mtg @ F+P Wed._ **

**_L_** as in Lauren Pritchard, the lead detective on the McEnroe case.

_Patrick met with Lauren for lunch on Wednesday to compare notes._

By the time the sun comes up, Pete’s already out the door with Patrick’s bag slung over his shoulder and a mission on his mind.

He prays to God he won’t be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to figure out how all my plot threads tie together is lowkey stressing me out...pray for me.


	10. sunday, cont'd:  confirmations and confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I meant to talk to you,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry, Pete, I just—I didn’t think—”
> 
> “You’re here now,” Pete cuts her off. He doesn’t have time for apologies. “Start from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys, I've been pretty busy the past few days. Anyway, new update! We're getting closer, I promise.

**_~ Three years earlier_ **

_The potluck was Saporta’s idea, something along the lines of “hey, we caught a serial killer and saved the three girls in his basement, let’s celebrate” and it’s not how Pete would’ve preferred to spend his night off, but he goes anyway, partially for the free food and mostly for the company._

_He’s in the kitchen refilling his cup and watching a less-than-sober Patrick giggle and fumble his way through recounting one of their more entertaining cases (the strip club one, probably) when a hand clamps down on his shoulder._

_“Havin’ fun?” Gabe slurs._

_“Not as much fun as you,” Pete replies, sipping his drink.  Across the room, Joe whispers something in Patrick’s ear and Patrick loses it, collapsing back onto the couch and clapping his hands, red-faced and shaking with laughter.  It’s infectious—Pete suppresses a smile._

_Gabe whistles and leans into Pete’s space; Pete can smell the alcohol on his breath.  “Damn, Wentz.  Remind me again why you haven’t hit that yet?”_

_“What?”_

_Gabe tuts and points.  “Don’t be_ stupid, _Peter.  I’m shitfaced as_ fuck _and I can still see you makin’ eyes at your boy from all the way over ‘ere.”  He nudges Pete, although it comes off as more of a shove and Pete nearly chokes on his drink.  “Come on.  I know you wanna,” he sing-songs._

_Pete coughs.  His face is red-hot; he hopes Patrick’s too drunk to notice him staring.  “I can’t,” he says pathetically.  “I just—it’s not like that, you know, it’s—it’s fragile.  I don’t—I don’t want to fuck it up.”_

_“Oh, puh-_ lease, _” Gabe retorts.  “Fuck-up, schmuck-up.  You only live once, my man, right, Bilvy?”_

_“He’s right,” says William behind them, “which is why I’m about to do this—”_

_He grabs Gabe from off of Pete and pushes him up against the cabinets; Pete’s still watching Patrick, but he can hear Gabe laughing and shouting, “Jesus, someone’s horny—” before being abruptly cut off, presumably by William’s mouth on his._

_Patrick’s laughing has died down, but he’s still smiling, lying against Joe’s shoulder like a contented cat.  The commotion around them is conversational overload—Brendon arguing with Dallon over something stupid, Vicky shout-singing along to “Smooth” by Santana on the speakers, Gabe and William sloppily making out on the kitchen countertop—but then Patrick locks eyes with Pete from the other side of the room, and suddenly nothing else matters.  A cynic might call it the alcohol clouding Pete’s vision, but Pete knows better.  Patrick is definitely glowing, rosy-cheeked and beaming with the dreamiest look in his eyes, and fuck if it isn’t the most beautiful thing Pete’s ever seen._

_“Go get ‘im,_ mijo, _” Gabe hollers between kisses; it’d be gross if Pete wasn’t so preoccupied.  “You only miss the shots you don’t take—_ mmph— _”_

_Patrick waves at him, and Pete lifts his drink to his lips to hide his face.  Someday, maybe._

_With their line of work, who knows what could happen?_

 

**[…]**

 

“Thanks for meeting me here, Lauren.”

They're at Fields and Pier again, under the pretense of a coffee date.  Pete wishes could've met Lauren somewhere else, but he needs all the information he can get, and he figures the familiarity could jog her memory.

Lauren scoffs good-naturedly, waving a hand.  “Gosh, thank _you_ for getting me out of work, the boys are _killing_ me.”  She takes a sip of her latte; her lips and nails are twin shades of red.  “But oh my god, how are you?” she asks anxiously.  “After what happened, you know, with—with Patrick, I meant to call—”

“I’m managing.”  Pete picks at his salad.  He has no intention of actually eating it.  He just needs something to keep him anchored in reality so he doesn’t fall to pieces mid-conversation.  “That’s actually why I needed to talk to you.  I know you guys had lunch on Wednesday.”

Lauren frowns.  “Well, yeah—he didn’t tell you?”

Pete shakes his head.  “No, he didn’t.  Though I think that has something to do with whatever you guys were discussing.”

He sets Patrick’s copy of the McEnroe case file on the table, and Lauren’s eyes widen in surprise before falling shut.  She presses a hand to her temple, shaking her head; remorse is written all over her face.  “I meant to talk to you,” she says quietly.  “I’m so sorry, Pete, I just—I didn’t think—”

“You’re here now,” Pete cuts her off.  He doesn’t have time for apologies.  “Start from the beginning.”

Lauren’s face looks ready to crumple, but she breathes in deep and pulls herself together.  “I asked Patrick for help on the McEnroe case,” she confesses, “’cause I figured, y’know, he could look at the information we already had, do a little extra digging, and we both knew it had something to do with whatever Sinclair had going on, but nothing seemed to stick out.”

“So you gave him a copy of the case file.”

Lauren nods.  She won’t look Pete in the eye.  “I know it’s wrong, and—and unethical, and whatever, and we both could totally lose our jobs for this, but—you don’t understand.  Everything about that case was just— _off._   He was looking at it on and off while you guys were closing out the whole Courtney Love thing and he had _some_ idea of what might’ve happened, but nothing—nothing really definitive to go off of.  Until Tuesday.”

Pete stops fidgeting and sets his fork down.  Tuesday.  Patrick’s first day off—and his meeting with Unknown Briefcase Guy.  “What happened on Tuesday?”

Lauren hesitates, eyes darting randomly about the room, before leaning in and lowering her voice.  “Well, Monday he had that whole talk with Travie about the job offer, right, and then I see him on Wednesday and he’s all, _the weirdest thing happened to me yesterday,_ so I asked him about it, and then he told me some guy—”

A group of laughing middle-aged women passes by their table, briefly halting the conversation, and then Lauren continues.

“—he told me some guy from the mayor’s office sat down with him on Tuesday and told him he should reconsider.”

“Reconsider what?  The job in LA?”

“Sounds like it.”

Pete sits back in his chair and stares at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all.  First the McEnroe case, then this guy from Sinclair’s office—why wouldn’t Patrick tell him about this?

“Listen, Pete—” Lauren starts.

“Do you know what Patrick’s theory was?” he interjects.

“What?”

“His _theory,_ ” Pete repeats impatiently, “about the McEnroe case.  Don’t look over your shoulder, nobody’s listening.  Just tell me what he thought.”

Before Lauren can answer, her phone goes off; two seconds later, so does Pete’s.  “You should take that,” she tells him, looking up from her phone.  “I have to go.”

She’s up from her seat and out the door before he can protest, leaving Pete with new information but no clear idea of how to proceed.  At least it’s a start, he tells himself, but at the same time he can’t help but feel like there’s some vital piece of information he’s missing—something his brain is reaching for but can’t quite grasp…

His phone buzzes insistently in his pocket, nagging him.  “Yeah, yeah,” Pete mutters, fishing it out.  “Wentz,” he says, holding it to his ear.

“Hey, it’s me,” Joe answers.  “I know you’re busy, but you need to come back, like, now.”

“What?  Why?”

“It’s too complicated to explain over the phone, can you just get your ass over here as soon as possible?”

Pete glances down at his (still-unfinished) salad, then at the door where, just moments ago, Lauren made her unceremonious exit.  Well, it’s not like he has anything left to do here, anyway.

“On my way,” he says.  “This better be good, Joe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheesh I hope this plot doesn't feel too convoluted...send help


End file.
